Paris
by Little Obsessions
Summary: 'Lies had feasted, ravenously, at her table tonight and she had let them without foresight.' A story that draws inspiration from Gomez's troublesome omission in the musical.
1. Chapter 1

I want this to be a chapter story, I really do, and if it is it will be ever so slightly AU and probably OOC. Do you want to read more? This is not a ploy for reviews, rather a genuine question. None of the characters belong to me and they belong to Paramount pictures.

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**'When good Americans die, they go to Paris.'**

**- Oscar Wilde**

She folded one dress over the other, neatly, methodically. Her hands were trembling lightly and she was not use to such a lack of control. Forcing bile down from her throat she groped for the bed post and took a moment to steady herself. The room was quiet, the storm had subsided, and the only noise was her hard breathing. She sat down on the edge of the bed and dipping her head, closed her eyes to regain some strength. Then she leaned over and from the side table, took the piece of privately headed stationary, and placed it neatly on his pillow.

In one undeniably humiliating moment everything she had been so sure of had been shattered. And now she felt lost. For the first time, ever in her life, she felt as if she was not any longer sure of her next move.

And Morticia always knew her next move.

She stood up again and making her way towards her dressing room, rifled through the drawers of her dresser. She plunged her hand in and withdrew the cheque book of the joint account that they shared, which was nestled between old lipsticks and cosmetic bottles. Then she opened her jewellery box and took her ruby and diamond necklace from within.

And then she committed the cardinal sin; she slipped her wedding, eternity and engagement ring from her finger. She was fond of metaphor and imagery and now the metaphor of these expensive pieces seemed broken to her. She placed them beside one and other in the lid compartment and closed it over. She breathed in quickly, her breath and body constricted, rushing forth from her in an uncontrolled manner. Her eyes blurred and her mouth curled against her teeth. She could not possibly be with him at this moment. The betrayal, however small it may seem to any outside observer, was cruelly agonising.

She would leave instructions with Lurch to have things shipped to her and with that final decision, she felt calm overcome her. Her hands ceased shaking as they gripped the cheque book, her finger felt less barren, her heart felt temporarily less broken. At least it was not emotion that was dictating her actions, instead it was the icy practicality that she considered to be her finest quality. If she let emotion rule her right now, she would be unrelentingly weak.

That was the problem, the rub, in her generally clear mind; she was too emotional about all of this...about him.

At the thought of him her stomach tightened unpleasantly. She pushed the though from her mind as she stalled at the door.

It occurred to her as she grasped the door handle that if she left those rings there, there was no going back. He would find them and read the subtext and then what? She has been so securely swaddled in this bubble for years, happiness and comfort and love are all she has known forever. With him.

And her children, her babies, that she has spent all of this time dedicating herself to. She would write, or phone more conventionally, when she reached wherever she planned to go.

Her blood pulsed through her body and she felt the sudden urge to vomit. She returned quickly to the jewellery box and pressed them back down on to her narrow finger. She wouldn't punish him like that. I can't do it, she thought ruefully. A full disclosure that made her feel weak with the submission. She couldn't do it, no matter how much she truly wanted to.

She closed her bedroom door behind her. The hall was deathly silent, where half an hour before all pandemonium had broken loose. She wanted to hate the Beinekes, she really did, but she could not hate them any more than she could hate her husband right now. And she could not be angry at Wednesday though nor could she fathom why her daughter had tried so vainly to keep the truth from her. She felt ashamed that her daughter, usually so open and transparent, had felt it necessary to keep something so vital from her. It made her feel cruelly cheated and yet made her wonder if she possessed some maternal deficit that made Wednesday feel she could not be truthful with her. She would have cautioned against it, yes, but regardless of her own feelings she would have given her blessing for her daughter to be wed. She believed fully, wholly, entirely in marriage.

Right now though, she did not believe in her own marriage. And lack of belief always posed a fundamental problem in any marriage. Lack of belief meant lack of pliable foundations if you wanted to look at it that way. And today, that was the only way she could look at it.

Lies had feasted, ravenously, at her table tonight and she had let them without foresight. That was where her most vehement anger lay. She had been so blissfully ignorant, so sure of the loyalty of him who she held most dear, that she had failed to see the deception. She was infuriated with herself. She stilled her body, prepared it for her descent, gripping the beautiful crocodile skin suitcase with determination that was manufactured from fear of the unknown. A long time ago, she had liked the unknown. She had known Paris a long time ago. She sighed lightly, perhaps she should reacquaint herself.


	2. Chapter 2

I am going to attempt to complete this. I have a sort-of formed idea about where it's going. I hope you enjoy.

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He drove frantically, desperately. So unused to driving he took no pleasure in the near deaths he caused. He was, to put it lightly, traumatised by events of the evening. Against everything that was good in him, he cursed his daughter to the ground. And let's not, he scolded himself, forget that you chose to comply with Wednesday's little scheme. A cry of rage racking through him, he slammed his palms hard on to the steering wheel and skidded to a halt outside the massive, glaring airport. Even amongst the throng of exhausted business men and fraying families, he would have been able to spot her. She was not there.

"Excuse me," he pushed forward to the information desk and pulled out a bulging money clip, "A flight to..." he paused.

Then all of his energy left him. The woman, bemused by his intensity but impressed by the production of that number of 100 dollar bills, merely stared. He thought, once, that he had known her so well that he could predict her. Yet now he felt that this assumption had been his most paramount mistake. She was as unpredictable as an unknown poison, a mutation of nature. And god he craved her above everything.

"Paris." At least if he didn't find her there, it was a starting point.

The woman shook her head, "The last flight left 2 hours ago," she checked her computer screen, "And the next one is not till 10 a.m in the morning."

He pushed the money towards her, "Ok."

Wednesday was waiting for him, sitting on the bottom step of the interior stairs, wringing her hands together. The house was dead. At least, he thought momentarily, she had made peace with Lucas.

"Did you get her?"

he was surprised by the frantic, flailing hand gestures and red that shadowed her usually lifeless cheeks.

"No," he sat down beside her.

"Here," Wednesday pulled something from her pocket. Immediately he recognised the scroll, loopy and spidery all at once, it was distinctive because, like her, it was perfectly formed. Like everything in her life she took time over the simplest thing, such as her handwriting. She has scored that into him too , literally and metaphorically,with a red hilted knife.

"I went into your room," Wednesday muttered.

Gomez had to work very hard to bite back the comment that she ought to have stayed out of anything that was to do with him and her mother at all but fatherly respect, and ultimately love, stopped him. He unfurled the envelope; dreading and hopeful in equal measure. He really knew little of the woman he had slept beside for over twenty years but he knew enough of Morticia to know that she couldn't just let it slip away in such an awful manner. He read it, then pressed it to his heart. He heard his daughter's breath hitch in response to his action but he did not want to share with her what was written within.

He turned to her, "She's gone to Paris."

"Oh...and?"

"She's asked that I don't go after her," he said, "But I am not listening to that."

They sat in pondering silence, both wondering the same thing, both frightened to voice it.

"I am sorry father," Wednsday was evidently trying not tot cry. His heart crumbled a little.

"It's not your fault paloma," he shook his head, "I should have put you in your place rather than lied for you. I am the adult."

"But you didn't want to."

"Ah," he laughed ruefully, "The point is that I did, regardless of whether or not I wanted to."

"Well for what it's worth," his daughter sighed, "I am sorry. Get back from Paris, with my mother, as soon as you can."

She stood up and in an uncharacteristic show of affection she bent down and hugged him. It was awkward and clumsy but it meant a lot to him nonetheless. Then she climbed the stairs quietly, leaving him there. He slumped against the bannister and felt sadness, acute and severe, coil up his spine to rest in his chest. He felt the weight of the word press between his ribs. She had left him. And he deserved it.


End file.
